First Impressions
by Fox J Darrell-Logan
Summary: First or second season, ignoring most of the storyline. Tessa has a close encounter . . .


Disclaimers: Imagine the Usual. You can't? okay, okay. THe people in this story do NOT belong to me. You would see them A LOT more if they did.  
  
Adam Pierson strolled down the banks of the Sienne, Lost in his own  
thoughts. How simple it had been all those years ago, how easy to just pick  
yourself up and fit in anywhere you pleased. There was no real police force  
there, not in the sense that there was now. He started to cross the street  
without really noticing that he was doing so, until he heard the screech of  
tires on pavement, straining to stop before the car hit him. No such luck.   
He tried to dodge out of the way, but the reflex came too late, and he felt  
the bone-shattering impact of metal bumper on human flesh. Felt himself hit  
the windshield of whatever car it was that hit him, felt himself roll off the  
hood of the car and keep going several feet before his battered body finally  
came to a stop. Then the ache set in. The gnawing, horrifying, all-over  
pain that always accompanied being hit by an object larger than oneself. He  
slowly picked up one hand from the pavement and put it to his face, then  
pulled it away to watch his blood-slickened palm. He was going to die. He  
was going to die right here, on the banks of Paris' central river, in front  
of . . . Who was she? She had gotten out of the small black car, and was  
looking worried and horrified all at once. He wanted to tell her that it was  
all right, that she didn't mean to, but his throat had stopped working for  
some reason. Or was it his ears? She had blonde hair and worried blue  
eyes, the severe eyebrows and high cheekbones that had become the norm for  
French women. She was bending over him, her fingers to the side of his neck,  
trying to find the thready carotid artery for the pulse. She said something,  
but he couldn't hear her, no sound reached his burst eardrums. Please, he  
wanted to say, no hospital, but he didn't know if it got out of his mouth or  
not. He felt the now-familiar heaviness that meant he was about to die, the  
slackening of his muscles, the drooping weight of his eyelids wishing to  
close. He surrendered peacefully, only thankful to be rid of the  
excruciating pain that was washing over him in intense waves that refused to  
cease. He felt his battered body give one final effort at breath, then cease  
to function at all.  
Tessa Noel dragged the man over to her car, then carefully lifted him up into  
it, making sure that the plastic she'd laid down was under his entire body.   
She didn't notice that he'd stopped breathing until she had gotten to the  
barge, ad it was too late. She was in a sort of shock. I've KILLED a man,  
she kept thinking over, and over, and over to herself, like a mantra. She'd  
brought the man's body into the barge, and laid him on Richie's bed. He was  
gone for the moment, and would be for at least three weeks. The man had  
looked so young, so trusting and innocent, yet like one who had suffered  
much. He was tall, but with a very slight frame and a thin, almost gaunt  
face. His dark hair was matted with blood, and his brown eyes, almost black,  
were glued shut by the blood that had flowed from them when he was still  
alive. He had no identification on him, but a strange tattoo marred the  
perfect skin at his left wrist. Tessa was done sketching the man she had  
killed, and she sat staring at it, noticing that without thinking about it,  
she'd drawn him as she'd seen him, face to one side, a resigned yet wondering  
look on his face, blood streaming from his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth as his  
body shuddered in a last attempt to stay alive. He'd asked her not to take  
him to a hospital, had tried to assure her that it was all right, claiming  
that it wasn't her fault, but his feeble words and the diminishing light in  
his chocolate eyes would haunt her all her life, she knew. She jumped as the  
front door opened to allow Duncan to enter, sword drawn. He examined the  
room with a critical eye, then went over to Tessa, noticing he drawing she  
was staring at.  
"Who is it?" he inquired, studying it in all it's graphic detail.  
"It's a man I accidentally hit with my car. He's dead," she replied, tears  
in her eyes. "He told me it's not my fault, but he was just lying there,  
bleeding on the pavement. He looked like a little rag doll who'd been thrown  
in a corner. His legs, his face. . ." She broke down on his shoulder,  
crying her eyes out. "He had such a gentle voice, so much in his eyes, like  
a man who had suffered a lot in his life, and I went and killed him! He  
looked almost grateful!"Duncan held her for as long as he could, then slowly  
brought her face back to look him in the eyes.  
"Where is he?" Tessa finally registered the drawn sword in his hand, and  
pointed back to Richie's room, and Duncan walked stealthily to the door,  
throwing it open.  
"I am Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod." He announced in his booming  
voice. The figure on the bed shifted, but didn't awaken. Duncan walked over  
to it and yanked the sheeting from the person's face. He was covered in  
blood, and appeared to be in a great deal of pain. He moaned, then went  
deathly still. Duncan leaned over the bloody figure and put two fingers to  
the man's neck, trying to find his pulse, as Tessa had done earlier.   
Suddenly the man was up and out of the bed, and Duncan felt himself slammed  
against a wall. The man had retreated to the far corner of the room from  
him, and was busily ridding himself of the plastic wrap that hindered his  
movements. He was a mousy looking man with short black hair and knowing  
brown eyes. He crouched down low and looked around, rubbing a spot on his  
chest as though it burned or itched furiously. Duncan raised his sword, and  
the man, who could not have been but an inch or two shorter than himself,  
pulled a long dagger from beneath his black jacket and raised it in front of  
him. Duncan was about to attack when he noticed that the man seemed to be  
having a hard time focusing on anything, and he kept shaking his head and  
wincing, as though trying to shake lose cobwebs that had settled on his  
brain. Duncan lowered his sword, and the other man dropped the dagger,  
instead holding his head in his hands and wavering on his feet. He seemed in  
immediate danger of falling, and as he began to lose his footing, Duncan  
rushed forward and caught him, picking him up and placing him back on the bed  
like a child. The man was very slight, and weighed almost nothing. Duncan  
wondered who this strange immortal was. He must have known that he was  
immortal, if for no other reason than because of the sizeable knife he  
carried. The man shuddered, coughed, then opened his eyes slowly.  
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Macleod," Duncan said, and the man on the  
bed laughed, breaking into a coughing fit that Macleod thought would never  
end.  
"I am Adam Pierson, of the Whales Piersons," he croaked roughly, but the  
underlying mirth in his voice made Mac wonder if he was lying. Adam lay his  
head on the pillow, no longer fearing for his life. He knew this type. They  
were too noble to fight anyone they knew was injured, too young to be a  
danger, or was a perceived friend. All he had to do was play injured until  
he could get up enough strength to either fight Duncan and die, or sneak out  
silently in the night without being caught by the young immortal, who he knew  
was strong enough and practiced enough to defeat him, albeit not without  
receiving serious injury. Adam closed his eyes, reveling in he feel of a  
warm, soft, at least mostly clean bed. He had a small apartment, but his  
present persona couldn't really afford the kind of accommodations that he  
would have liked. He slipped into sleep easily, without attempting in any  
way to stay awake, dreaming of wide deserts and wells of healing waters.  
MacLoed stood and studied the young-looking man lying asleep on the bed,  
wondering what he was doing on the river that day, wondering if perhaps he  
was another headhunter out to take out 'the Highlander', as he had been  
dubbed. He would soon find out, especially if this young person was planning  
on staying with them for any real length of time. HE left the door open and  
went to Tessa, who had been watching in frozen fascination the scene  
unfolding in Richie's small bedroom.  
"So, he's like you. Immortal," she stated, asking with her eyes the same  
question MacLeod had been pondering himself.  
"Yes. When he wakes up, I'll offer him a shower and a talk, then we'll find  
out what he was doing down here," Tessa knew that he was suspicious of all  
unknown immortals who crossed his path, especially since Felicia Martins.   
Tessa nodded, looking around Mac to the dark figure lying prone on Richie's  
bed.  
Adam woke to the smell of someone cooking steak, his mouth practically  
watering at the thought of having a juicy steak. But no, he'd already worn  
out his welcome, he was sure. The Boy Scout type may not injure or challenge  
you unless you're a threat, but they did have a habit of kicking you out on  
your rump. He sat up in the bed a little to quickly, and held the heel of  
his hand to his forehead against the pain there until it subsided, then swung  
his legs off the side of the bed and stood slowly. Being hit by a car was  
never a fun experience, since it rattled your brains around, and left Adam  
personally with a huge headache for days. He walked slowly out of the small  
room and into the main area of the large boat the this Duncan MacLeod of the  
Clan MacLeod and his current female occupied. Hadn't he read somewhere about  
this Duncan MacLeod? He was sure he had, but at the moment, his short term  
memory was a bit vague. He looked around, noting all of the antiques and  
objet d'art that littered every flat surface in the place. Were he in a  
better mood, Adam would have thought the decor tasteful, obviously a product  
of much travel and learning, but as it was, all he could think about was how  
to get from one end of the boat to the door a the other without knocking  
anything over.  
"Hello?" a young female voice said to his left, in heavily accented English.   
Adam turned to look at her, noticing her classic French features, complete  
with those doe eyes that had always seemed to get him in trouble. Ah, Louise  
. . . "Hello? Mr. Pierson?" she asked again, trying to get his attention.   
He looked at her more attentively and nodded in her direction, not quite  
trusting his mangled throat yet. "Would you like to take a quick shower?   
Duncan went out for some herbs for his steaks, but he set out some clothes  
you could use." she volunteered, and Adam nodded. A shower sounded really  
good. He followed her to the bathroom, and the spacious shower there,  
complete with clean towels and clothes already laid out in preparation for  
him. He smiled softly. This he could get used to. The woman was standing  
in uncomfortable silence, watching him with a hawk mother's eye. She was  
trying to figure him out. Good luck, he thought. I don't get me sometimes.  
"Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Throat injuries took  
so long to heal. She nodded and left the room, making sure that MacLeod's  
steaks wouldn't burn while he was out. Adam took a long shower, scrubbing  
the blood and other bodily fluids away until he finally felt clean enough to  
join the rest of the world. He put on the clothes that MacLeod had set out  
for him, noticing that they were approximately the same size as his own. A  
dark blue t-shirt and a pair of black jeans. Not his first choice in  
wardrobe, but at least it was clean. He dried and combed his hair then left  
the bathroom, his soiled clothes in a bundle in his arms. He found Tessa in  
the kitchen area.  
"Um, I don't suppose you have a plastic bag I can stow these in, hmm?" he  
inquired tentatively, noticing that the added moisture of the shower had done  
his voice a lot of good. He could speak at a normal decibel level now, and  
almost in his true voice. She was startled by his sudden appearance, and a  
suspicious gleam caught fire in her eyes. He cursed in his mind. The last  
thing he needed was a suspicious female watching him constantly. Then the  
fire faded into general friendliness.   
"Sure, we have to have something like that lying around here somewhere," she  
said as she checked under cabinets and in drawers. The smallest thing she  
could find was a trash bag. Adam piled his clothes in it and tied the top,  
looking around and noting the dynasties and time periods of the art in the  
place. And the small area in the corner that held a blowtorch and some  
twisted metal scraps that were trying to be a swan.   
"You sell much work?" he asked. The thought hadn't even entered her mind  
that the art would be any other than hers. She looked him up and down again,  
deciding that he didn't really have any sinister thoughts or intentions for  
now.  
She moved to stand beside her piece, as though to protect it, and ran a hand  
along one long curved piece of re-bar-looking metal.   
"Some. Right now, I'm doing some curatorship work for the Paris Museum of  
Art. In Seacouver I did some shows, sold a few pieces." Adam nodded.   
"You have a good grasp of it. You paint as well?" She looked at him  
quizzically.  
"On occasion. How did you know?" Adam smiled.  
"Your concepts of what will be shadowed and what in full light, the way the  
metal looks like it was carefully planned out. Some things I've seen about  
look like catastrophes that someone pulled out of the wreckage of an  
automobile accident and put on display." He walked closer to the piece and  
reached out a hand to touch it, paused. "May I? I Know some artists don't  
like their unfinished work touched." She nodded, and he ran one  
long-fingered hand up a beam of metal, down a different one, looking up to  
the head of the swan, holding a piece of the metal as though more for balance  
than anything else. He closed his eyes for a moment, simply standing there,  
no expression on his face save one of peace. He seemed to be almost bonding  
with the metal. Then he leaned his head against his hand, a single tear  
rolling down his face.   
"Are you all right?" Tessa asked. She hadn't seen anyone respond to her art  
in this way. He seemed to just notice her, his head jerking up, his hand  
flying from the metal beam as though it burnt his skin.  
"Yes, I'm fine. Just," He ran a hand over his short brown hair. "Just  
remembering another artist I once knew. She was very special to me. Your  
work reminds me of her, nothing more." He looked down at where he had  
dropped his clothes on the floor.  
"Well, I'd best be going, Hmm? I don't think that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan  
MacLeod likes me very much. It'll be a lot less tense at dinner without me  
here. I'll wash the clothes and get them back to you." He slowly bent to  
pick up the parcel, a slight wince on his face. Tessa watched, wondering  
what to do. This man seemed so alone, in need of warmth and companionship,  
but it was true, Duncan had not seemed to like this man very much. She  
nodded silently and watched him traverse the long boat, walk out the door,  
heard his footsteps echo as he walked off the boat, onto the boardwalk, and  
out into the cold Paris night. 


End file.
